


Keeping A Promise

by rhetta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, F/M, I'm Sorry, John is a Jackass at First, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mycroft To The Rescue, Trigger Warning-Mentions of Self Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhetta/pseuds/rhetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John made Sherlock promise never to abuse heroin again.</p><p>When Sherlock is left completely alone, he makes sure to keep his promise.</p><p>Luckily, John left room for plenty of loopholes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this sleep-deprived and hungry, so I am really, really NOT confident in this.
> 
> It's my first Sherlock fic, so yay.
> 
> As usual, I have no beta or Brit-Picker, so I can't vouch for the quality.
> 
> That being said, feel free to leave comments/kudos on your way out.
> 
> (NOTE: This chapter has been partially rewritten for quality. No plot has changed.)

The apartment known as 221b Baker St. was not particularly small. Of course, it was not used to having so many visitors.

Mycroft and Lestrade stood by a window, looking out onto the city below.

Molly and Mrs. Hudson stood next to a table piled with papers, making awkward conversation.

John sat rigid in his red chair, glaring at today's problem.

Sherlock, the man of the hour himself, was sprawled on the couch. His face was pressed into a cushion, and his hair was dusty and tangled. He still wore the filthy hoodie and sweatpants John had found him in at the drug den.

After what felt like hours of tense silence, John finally snapped, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair.

"Damnit, Sherlock! You were bloody _clean_ , and then you had to go and cock everything up because you got _bored_."

Sherlock groaned softly as he turned to face John. He squinted up with glazed eyes full of disinterest.

An annoyed scoff reached the doctor's ears.

"As I keep telling you, it was for a _case_."

Mycroft suddenly moved away from his position at the window, instead electing to head towards the door of Sherlock's room.

"I see." he said, quirking a condescending eyebrow. "So if I were to have Gregory here inspect your room..."

"Whoever this 'Gregory' is, I can assure you he would find nothing but an empty syringe and a dead box turtle. So do be kind, brother mine, and PISS OFF."

This outburst earned many reactions.

From John and Lestrade there were eyerolls. Molly and Mrs. Hudson both seemed rather shocked at Sherlock's use of language, and they excused themselves to the kitchen for tea.

Mycroft simply allowed a brief expression of distaste to cross his features before attempting to speak to his brother once again.

"You're still high. aren't you?" he said with a haughty smirk. "What would Mummy think?" He chuckled briefly before letting out a surprised _'oof.'_

Sherlock snarled, allowed his body to weigh down his brother, and twisted Mycroft's arm. Hard.

"I have put up with your brotherly concern, Mycroft, for long enough today. Make a smart decision for once, and vacate my apartment."

He added, loud enough to carry through the few rooms that made up 221b, "That means all of you insufferable idiots. Out."

The visitors to the flat left one by one, each of them grumbling about their not-so-gracious host.

John heaved himself up from his chair, heading in the direction of the others.

Sherlock quickly moved to a seated position, earning him a sharp sting to his temples.

"Where are you going?" he demanded irritably.

"Home." John said without turning back. "I don't live here anymore, remember? I have to get home to Mary at our apartment."

Sherlock's gut twisted at his former flatmate's use of the word "home."

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, falling into the familiar routine of deducing everything around him.

"You will return home to Mary, your flimsy attempt at convincing yourself of your heterosexuality. You will then have utterly meaningless and unsatisfying sex with her to relieve stress. After this, you will fall asleep after a night of insomnia, only to be stricken with yet another nightmare about-"

"Shut up." John said firmly, fuming. He let out a long sigh and rubbed at his forehead.

"I do have to get home, but first I will make sure you don't do anything daft like this again."

The words "And cause me further inconvenience," while not stated outright, were heard by both men.

"You must swear to me," John said, as if he were a parent chastising his child. "That you will never use that damn syringe again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again. He nodded slightly before practically spitting his next words.

"Don't worry about me. Go home to your girlfriend."

John grabbed his coat, and, sparing one last look at the detective, left 221b Baker St.  
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The moment he was alone, Sherlock bolted to his room.

Once inside, he made his way to a bookshelf, pushing aside assorted pharmaceuticals and their tools for administration until he came upon a small tin. He clutched the tin in pale fingers and darted to the bathroom.

Sherlock locked the door and filled the tub with warm water. He stripped to his black boxers and took his tin with him into the water.

Trembling fingers coaxed the lid off and cautiously reached into the container. Sherlock pulled out the fruit of his efforts and tossed the tin aside.

Sherlock clenched one fist tightly and raised his forearm to the front of his face.

He brought the gleaming razor to his porcelain flesh with stunning accuracy, making endless parallel lines from his wrist to the crease of his elbow.

Finished with his task, Sherlock set his razor on the rim of the tub and sank further into the water. He felt the crimson liquid dripping from his arms, but he barely registered the pain.

He let his eyes droop as the tub's water stained pink.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awoke to a crick in his neck, a ringing in his ears, and a bad taste in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again.
> 
> Here's chapter two of my latest baby, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> NOTE: I edited chapter one a bit. There are not serious plot changes, but I improved the style as best I could.
> 
> As always, I have no beta or brit-picker, so I apologize for my mistakes.

Finished with his task, Sherlock set his razor on the rim of the tub and sank further into the water. He felt the crimson liquid dripping from his arms, but he barely registered the pain.

He let his eyes droop as the tub's water stained pink.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock awoke to a find crick in his neck, a ringing in his ears, and a bad taste in his mouth.

The tub had long since drained, but his boxers were still damp with the remnants of his soak.

He sat up, slowly, and surveyed the damage.

The skin around his newest marks was still angry, red, and stinging. Judging by the light coming in through the window, he had been unconscious for at least six hours.

 _Curious_. Mrs. Hudson had not come to check on him in all that time. John hadn't started to worry-

_Oh._

That's right. Sherlock was truly alone now. John had found another distraction in his boring new girlfriend.

How could John replace him like that?

Of course, he had been presumed dead...

No. No! Surely John would know that Sherlock had a plan, that he had been saving those he loved.

But that was just it, wasn't it? John, like everybody else, thought of Sherlock as a machine. A supercomputer with no emotions.

On the contrary, Sherlock had many emotions.

He felt annoyance towards Mycroft, a sense of comradery with Molly, and an appreciation for Lestrade.

Most importantly, however, was his love for John.

Yes, somewhere along the way, amongst the countless narrow escapes from death, Sherlock had fallen in love with the army doctor.

His unfaltering loyalty, his dry wit, his exciting presence. All of these things the consulting detective had come to love.

And then Mary had to come along and ruin everything.

Mary was not good for John. She was a boring nurse who sucked all the interesting substance from Sherlock's former flatmate. All he did now was go on boring dates and an sit around in his boring new flat.

Try as he might to be kind, Sherlock felt nothing but contempt for Mary.

Mary had taken his John from him, and now he was as he was years before. _Alone_.

After a while, Sherlock built up the will to drag himself out of the tub. He put his razor back in the tin and shuffled back out into the sitting room.

Sherlock tossed the tin next to a pile of books and flopped down onto the couch. His damp boxers and hair squeaked against the leather as he squirmed.

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone buzzed where it had been tossed on the floor, signaling a text. Sherlock summoned his energy and reached for the phone, pressing the appropriate sequence of buttons to read the message.

**Why were you in the bathroom for so long, Sherlock? -MH**

_Piss off. -SH_

_**Don't think I won't sent someone after you. -MH** _

_I've said piss off. -SH_

**As you wish, brother mine, but don't expect this to be our last correspondence. -MH**

_Go fuck Lestrade. -SH_

Sherlock launched his phone at a wall with a bitter chuckle. _That_ would keep Mycroft quiet for a while.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John took a cab back to his and Mary's flat, seething the entire way there.

 _First the bastard dies_ , John thought to himself. _Then he rises from the dead like Jesus himself and expects everyone to throw a parade._

He arrived at the flat and began storming around, looking for a way to vent.

_Then he goes and falls off the wagon, makes me leave Mary all alone._

John kicked over some object, he knew not what.

_Why can't he just accept that I've moved on?_

The army doctor began pacing the floor of his sitting room.

_I've got a new life, damn it!_

At the sound of John's foot connecting with a doorframe, Mary appeared.

"A bit not good, then?" Mary's singsong voice asked. "What's he got to this time?"

"Heroine." John replied, with not a bit of warmth.

"Oh my." Mary squeaked, covering her mouth with her hands. She wrapped her small arms around John's shoulders and patted his back soothingly.

"He'll be fine." she murmured in his ear. "He always is. It's Sherlock we're talking about here."

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft sat back in his office chair and sighed, once again scrubbing his face. He glanced over at his companion and shook his head fondly.

_Sherlock always was bright._

Lestrade noticed Mycroft staring and smiled over at him, only to notice the haggard look on his face.

"What is it, Myc?" he asked earnestly.

"See for yourself." He pointed to his computer screen, where some of the latest audio/visual feeds from 221b were displayed.

Mycroft was gesturing towards one scene in particular. It was from a few hours prior. Sherlock exited his flat's bathroom in only his boxers and lay down on his couch, scarcely moving.

Lestrade turned back to Mycroft, as this seemed like normal Sherlockian behavior. He looked back, however, when his partner's eyes widened and his hands curled into fists.

Sherlock had moved only slightly, but it was enough for the two men to catch a glimpse of his forearm. What they saw were streaks upon streaks of red decorating Sherlock's arm.

Lestrade paled and winced upon seeing this. He turned to Mycroft, in whom he saw something rare: _fear_. Mycroft genuinely feared for his brother's safety.

Greg put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"There's got to be some way to help him." the Detective Inspector croaked out.

"Or maybe," Mycroft said, suddenly reaching for his phone. "Some _one_."

He navigated to his contact list and scrolled until he found the proper name. He sent a simple, six-worded message.

**I have a case for you. -MH**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading and leaving kudos and feedback.
> 
> I'll be updating as much as possible, but school IS keeping me rather tied up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting a little more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the huge delay in posting! I've got some ideas for more of this fic, and I'm going to try my best to update much more frequently from now on.

The flat was silent.

Now, especially after one of its residents had left, the place seemed a little too empty, a little too still. Nonetheless, one could always listen and hear its remaining occupant shuffling about. Or, at least, the whirring of equipment, or even the pattering of rats' feet.

But, as John Watson stood there in the space his chair had been, eyes closed and head cocked, he heard nothing.

There was no sign of Sherlock, and the flat was completely, maddeningly, earth-shatteringly silent.

As the realization struck, John dropped his bag and and bolted across the floor to Sherlock's room. He hesitated at the door.

Seven years, and John had never seen past this door.

Concern prevailed over whatever sense of doubt John possessed, and he gingerly pushed his way into the room.

For the bedroom of a chemist turned consulting detective, Sherlock's room was...clean. There were no running experiments littering every (or any) surface, as John had expected. There was no dirty laundry strewn about, not even a single scrap of food.

John grew frantic. Sherlock wasn't anywhere in the flat. Not in the loo or the kitchen, and certainly not in his--er, the spare bedroom. The detective must be on a case, but if he was...where were all his things?

John pondered this question as he paced back and forth in the sitting room, growing more and more uneasy with each step.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Two Weeks Prior_

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson's voice spilled into the stale atmosphere of 221b. "Someone's here to see you."

Sherlock gave no response. He dared not get his hopes up, as it was likely Lestrade again, or worse, Mycroft.

"Hello," said a voice that was decidedly feminine.

Sherlock flopped about on the sofa until he was met with the wide-eyed and tight-smiling face of one Molly Hooper.

She was clad in a ghastly pink jumper. The equally horrendous pink gloves were shoved into a pocket, and Molly wrung her hands nervously.

"Thought I'd come for a visit," she said. "Take you for a bite to eat."

When Molly's cheery invitation met with silence, her smile cracked and fell from her face.

She hated to pull this card so soon, but Mister Holmes had been adamant.

"If you let me feed you something," she said wearily. "Mycroft will probably leave you alone for a while."

Seemingly snapping into focus, Sherlock stood abruptly and left the flat without so much as a glance behind him to see if Molly had followed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were an interesting sight, for anyone who happened to be looking. If one took the time to notice, they might have thought it was a very odd-looking couple taking a stroll down Baker Street. Odd-looking indeed, for it was comprised of one very grimy man in a very nice coat shuffling along the sidewalk and a woman in a horrible sweater and gloves trailing softly behind, saying nothing.

There was no conversation, but it wasn't for lack of trying on Molly's part. Any attempt at speaking, asking a question, or even smiling was met with an almost uncomprehending slow blink of the detective's eyes, or an occasional grunt.

The silence that had fallen over the pair remained until they entered the shop, which was blessedly crowded and anything but quiet.

Molly was no longer trying to smile. Her cheerful facade had been dropped on their walk, and the mousy woman was now clutching at her drink and sporting the most tired eyes Sherlock had ever seen on her (if he had cared to look, that is).

Molly once again opened her mouth, this time determined to _talk._

"Sherlock," she said with a confidence she didn't possess. "Let's stop by Bart's on the way back. I know you've been wanting those--"

"Keep them."

 _There_ was a red flag if Molly had ever heard one. How many times had Sherlock bothered the morgue staff for a spare liver or kidney? And he had never turned down any of the limbs Molly had gotten her hands on. Maybe Mr. Holmes was right. _Maybe..._

Suddenly, Molly's phone beeped in her pocket. She quickly glanced at Sherlock, who hadn't even twitched at the noise, then checked the phone. One new message.

**All done here.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, kudosing, and commenting! I truly appreciate every little notification I get.


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